I’m a little afraid.
I’ve been trying to understand that fear—to name it, define it, look for where it comes from instead of drowning it out with noise.
I’m a little afraid to put my phone down and simply be present.
That fear surprised me when I decided that tomorrow I’d leave my phone in one place, as if it were an old landline, and only walk over to it when someone calls or when I truly need to do something important.
The thought of putting it away feels strangely uncomfortable.
Of course, there’s addiction. But there’s also an escape into movement. Into busyness. Into doing.
But what am I escaping from?
I do everything on my phone. I connect with people. I pray for them. I read Scripture. I write down what I believe God is speaking to me. I dream, make plans, read books, shop, organize our family life, look for homeschooling inspiration, browse beautiful things, write, check information, save favorite recipes, record my thoughts, make grocery lists, keep track of appointments and deadlines, pay in stores and restaurants, show my digital ID, take photos, learn…
And waste time.
There’s so much packed into that one device that I often forget how to simply be.
I could spend all day staring at a screen and still never finish everything that feels important or urgent.
And yet, despite having plenty of good reasons to justify it, something about it leaves me uneasy.
My absence.
This endless world, compressed into a cleverly designed glowing box, exhausts me.
I enjoy using it.
I don’t enjoy it when it consumes me.
Or when I’m setting the wrong example.
Our children don’t have access to cartoons or phones. And yet I’m on mine so often.
Too often.
Because my brain is always reminding me of something. It wants to grow. It wants to know more.
But sometimes I’d like to know absolutely nothing.
Just be.
But there’s another truth.
It’s also my escape.
Because in silence, the questions come.
Questions about myself.
About Him.
About life.
About the future.
Silence asks us to face what is real.
That’s good.
It’s not always comfortable.
It’s never easy.
And yet, in the end, silence is deeply peaceful.
It’s where I find my way back to myself.
It’s where I listen to Him—without whom I would no longer be myself, because I belong to Him.
It’s where things become clearer.
Where I define, search, and finally find peace.
And then there’s presence.
I remember my childhood, when we all sat together in the living room. Maybe the television was on, but conversations happened anyway.
We were together.
As far as I remember, we only retreated to our rooms when we needed to study.
We shared life.
That’s the kind of home I want our sons to grow up in.
A home where everyone is present.
Where people truly notice one another.
And where they leave carrying that way of living with them.
So tomorrow I won’t reach for my phone first thing in the morning.
Later, I’ll leave it in one place.
And I’ll be.
Present.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
I don’t want to turn this into a seven-day challenge.
Or a month-long digital fast.
Or a temporary exercise in mindfulness.
I want this for life.
I want it to become a habit.
May it become part of who I am.
Do you feel the same?
What are you going to do about it?
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